This Year
This year moss has grown
on the cold side of our tree. It sits
thick damp green at the roots but
thins towards the plywood box I made;
the box you requested,
which I fixed with carpet tacks
because I would not find screws.
Weathered now and splitting, it will not last
another winter.
The hole I drilled; cut; hammered in frustration,
too large for sparrows,
is dark,
adding its emptiness to all the others.
Ian Glass grew up in Northumberland and lives in Worcestershire. He trained as an engineer, works as a computer programmer and writes most of his poetry when he should be doing something else.